Deep Roots
by cakeisnotpie
Summary: Part 2 of The Broken Blade Hulkeye series. Clint always knew his past would catch up to him, he just never imagined he'd drag those who loved into the fight with him. Or Clint's past as Ronin catches up to him. Or Clint and Bruce try to get married but bad stuff happens. Part one is "Not All Who Wander"
1. Chapter 1

**THEN**

He held his breath, sucked in his stomach and tried to cry silently, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks. The voice was loud, angry, so harsh and guttural; every word was a shout, every phrase followed by a thunk of fist hitting flesh. She'd long ago quit screaming, nothing now but a few quiet moans. He could see her arm as she slumped on the floor, red rivulets of blood staining the cuff of her white uniform. Fingers jerked as the kicks landed; he squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the bright smears on the black and white tile.

"Stop it!" His brother's voice, pitched high, fear making it tremble. "Leave her alone!"

"Don't you talk to me like that!"

The breath was knocked out of Barney's chest by the first fist to his chest, and he spun around with a cry. The second slammed into his jaw, and he went down, bouncing off the floor, skidding to a stop just in front of the small crevice Clint had folded his little body into. His brother saw him and managed a weak shake of his head, his message clear … don't move, don't say anything.

"You're as bad as she is, protecting him." A kick and Barney shut his eyes. "The lot of you aren't worth the trouble." Another kick and Barney's fists clenched. "I could have been something if this bitch hadn't gotten pregnant, could have been out of this crappy dead-end job." The last kick was vicious; Barney shuddered and went limp, blood trickling from the corner of his lip. An eerie silence descended. Clint curled up tighter, even smaller, and prayed to anyone listening, God or an angel or a saint or even the devil himself, it didn't matter who.

The meaty hand clamped around his skinny little wrist and yanked, dragging him out of his hiding place, scraping skin from his knees and elbows as he went.

"There you are," his father said, bloodshot eyes trained on him, breath smelling like a distillery. "Let's you and me have a talk."

**TWO DAYS AGO – Belarus**

"Stay down!" Coulson ordered the ragged group of young boys; they cowered in a corner of the lab, hiding from the gunfire that blazed around them. A.I.M. guards in their yellow overalls were positioned behind a bank of computers, blocking the exit. Someone was going to get the chewing out of their lifetime when Coulson found the person who ran intel on this job; Clint hadn't seen Phil this angry since he discovered Fury hadn't told anyone Phil was alive. This was supposed to be a milk run, a small facility with little-to-no security. Waltz in, see what they had, corrupt some files, and get out. Instead, they'd found a hive of activity including an operating room almost ready to go online and cages full of boys to experiment on.

"We're going to have company!" Clint shouted to Steve who had waded into the biggest group of enemy. Steve didn't bother to ask how Clint knew, just gave him a hand sign of agreement and tossed his shield again. Assessing their situation, Clint saw only one possible way. Darting out from his protective cover of an overturned table, he covered the open ground as fast as he could, ducking behind a half wall near the boys. Terrified eyes gazed at him through a crack in the overturned tables around them. "Do you understand English?" he asked. Most of them didn't react, but one boy, maybe twelve, stared back with his dark eyes and nodded. "Okay, when I tell you to run, I want you to go fast, okay? We're getting out of here." Another nod, and the boy relayed the information to the others. Some of them shook their heads and others cowered further away. The boy turned back to Clint.

"Avenger?" He asked, accent thick. "Hawkeye?"

"That's me. Remember, run and don't look back." Clint wasn't sure if that helped or not, but the one boy pulled himself up and spoke sharply to the others. The wall was cinderblock; notching the arrow, he took aim at the structurally weakest part and let the arrow go, timer set for 10 seconds. It landed and the explosion followed, showering them all with rubble and dust.

"Now." Clint told the boys; they started for the hole, scrabbling over sections of block. "Marines, we are leaving!" Clint shouted to the others, firing a couple gas arrows to create a diversion and make targeting hard for everyone else. Just as he turned to start for the wall, he saw one of the boys stumble and go down, blood flowing from the open gash on his foot. Without thinking, Clint got off a shot seconds before an A.I.M. guard materialized in the smoke; he ran forward, picked up the boy and made for the new exit, twisting to the left to avoid a shower of more block. A pain shot through his back, up into his arm and down his spine but he kept going, carrying the crying child out into the rainy afternoon. Steve followed, Coulson and the other agents coming out behind them, firing rounds back into the smoke.

**EIGHT HOURS AGO – on a quinjet somewhere over Europe**

"I don't care who vetted it. We're not going out on another half-assed mission until I've read every file and made my own plans." Coulson didn't raise his voice, didn't even sound angry, but the certainty was chilling. His eyes were cold and his body contained as he listened to the reply. "You do that. Have A.D. Hill contact me directly. Or Director Fury. Until then, we're on our way home and off duty." He severed the connection.

"Go get 'em, Phil." Clint tried to get comfortable in his jump seat, but his back was aching too much. He'd taken some muscle relaxants a short time ago; he just had to wait for them to kick in. What a frustrating run around the last six months had been. Ever since General Ross had come after Bruce again and they'd uncovered a brand new threat that was trying to gain entrance to this universe … and yeah, Clint knew how crazy that sounded, but welcome to his world … they'd been chasing their tails, trying to contain the damage. Dr. Van Dyne's process for creating new Hulks and enhancing existing mutations was the single most dangerous thing H.Y.D.R.A. had come up with then Richard Fisk had shared that information with A.I.M. and other villainous groups. SHIELD was barely keeping ahead of the curve, taking out splinter cells and crazy scientists just before they successfully recreated the process. Thus, Clint bouncing from one place to the other, shutting them all down.

"It was sloppy work," Steve agreed. "I can't see how anyone would mistake that large building for something smaller. All the trucks coming and going … you'd think they would have figured it out."

They shared a look; the pilot and other SHIELD agents around them didn't know about their search for the inside person who was sharing information. Steve was right, though, this was sloppy. Such bad intel pointed suspicion directly to the people involved; Clint suspected their inside man was too smart to so easily give himself away, but maybe he or she was getting desperate. These constant missions, each one more reckless than the last, were going to raise suspicions. Thank God that, so far, they were all safe and sound, but Clint was growing more exhausted with each new op.

"I take my job very seriously." That was Coulson speak for heads would roll when he got back. "This should never have happened."

"I'm going home," Clint tossed out as his head fell back against the seat. "You'll have to do the ass chewing without me."

"How long has it been?" Steve asked. "You been back since the beach house?"

"For no more than six hours at a time." It didn't used to bother Clint, being gone so much; in fact, keeping busy kept him from noticing just how little he had in his life. But now, with Bruce waiting, the quasi-family thing he had going at the Tower, he missed it, the whole crazy mess. Going to sleep with the Big Guy and waking up Bruce. Watching movies with Thor and shouting at the screen. Winding Tony up and enjoying the fallout when he went off half-cocked. Eating deli subs with Steve before the ballgame, cheering Natasha on when she and Carol sparred, listening to Darcy run circles around Thor and Tony and just about everyone else. Somehow, and he wasn't sure how it happened, he'd gotten a life.

The comm buzzed and Steve's phone went off at the same time. Phil put the headset back on as Maria's face came up on the screen. Steve looked at his screen and sighed.

"Tony's heard," Steve warned, texting back. "I'll try to head him off at the pass." Tony would be on the warpath, even more than he already was about the inside connection. He hadn't been able to track the mole down and Tony was getting really pissed.

"I understand that, Maria," Phil said at the same time. "I'll check in with you in the morning to go through the files. I plan to get a good night's sleep, first time in weeks."

Clint watched them both continue their conversations, one verbal, one in texts, his eyes drifting closed, the ache finally receding. Phil had gotten his way; he was smiling and even made a joke. A faint red blush was creeping up Steve's neck which meant Tony had moved on to sexting, a concept Steve was more than happy to embrace considering how much time they spent apart. Clint certainly enjoyed the creative ways Bruce found to stay in contact during long deployments; he'd fired his own text off to Bruce before liftoff, telling him he was on the way home. With their new connection, he could sometimes sense Bruce, even half a world away, get a rush of joy when numbers came together for him or the Hulk beat Thor at Halo. It went both ways; worried calls after a particularly bad fight and no hiding wounds anymore, but phone sex, when Clint could feel the echoes of Bruce's climax rippling through his own, was particularly good.

Coulson sat down next to Clint and studiously avoided looking Steve's way. "I'm going over the file with a fine tooth comb before I authorize the next op. Enough is enough."

"Sounds like sleeping in my own bed is in my future." Clint said with a smile.

"Like you'll be sleeping," Coulson laughed. "Either one of you."

"You know Tony would love to set you up with someone if you're …" Clint began.

"I will kill you slowly if you even whisper any such thing to Stark," Phil threatened.

Clint just grinned and closed his eyes.

**NOW**

Clint sank down into the hot water and sighed as the jets hit all the right places on his aching body. A chilled pale ale sat on the rim of the massive tub next to a plate of salted caramel bars, _Game of Thrones_ on the integrated screen in the mirrored wall. If Bruce was busy, at least Clint could indulge himself a little, try to relax, and get his back to quit hurting. Shifting to direct a jet of water to the spot that ached, Clint sighed and let his head fall back on the waterproof pillow.

"Hey, Jarvis said you were back," Bruce crossed the threshold, bare feet padding silently along the tile floor. "Said you hurt your back?"

"Just a pulled muscle, Doc." Clint enjoyed a good long look at the man from toes all the way up to his curly brown hair that had finally grown back from where he'd had to shave it while on the run. "I told Jarvis to wait until you were at a stopping point. I planned to sit here for a while. Of course, now that you're here, you're welcome to join me."

"You're just angling for a massage," Bruce said with a laugh, but he was already unbuttoning his shirt. He undressed with practiced swiftness, used to disrobing quickly before a change; Clint slid forward and made room for Bruce behind him. "Are those up for grabs? Cause I haven't eaten since breakfast." He picked up a bar and bit into it without waiting for an answer.

"Help yourself." Tension was unwinding its hold around Clint's spine, and he rested his arms on the lip of the tub, the water washing over the infinity edge as they settled. At the first touch of Bruce's hands, Clint sighed. Bruce could work magic with his fingers, finding knots and kinks and pressing them until they released. Sometimes the process hurt, but Clint kind of liked that part, the sharp pain that faded under the deep circles Bruce wove. The best was when he could feel the pop as the tendons gave way and loosened. Or maybe the best was the slick slide of those elegant fingers across his skin. Being naked didn't hurt either.

Bruce found the sorest spot, and Clint sucked in a breath, grunting at the burn as the knuckle pushed at the knot. "That's a bad one," Bruce said as he wrapped his other hand around Clint's waist to hold him still and apply even more force. "You should probably see a chiropractor."

Squirming a little, Clint bit his lip as he started to harden at the touch. "I've got you, Doc."

"Here, let's try this." Bruce pulled Clint back, settling him between his legs in the big tub. Wrapping an arm around Clint's chest, he kept up the pressure and rolled his knuckle in tiny circle. "Lean forward and to the right. Slowly."

As he stretched, muscles shifted, tensed and relaxed until he hit the exact tilt that pulled everything taut. A flash of discomfort ran all the way into his neck, and then came the release. "Oh, hell yes. That's good."

"Acupuncture really would help, you know," Bruce argued as he tugged Clint back to lie against him. "As well as more rest between ops; you're not bouncing back as fast."

"You saying I'm getting old?" The water was continually warmed as it circulated, and Clint floated his arms to the surface. "No thank you to needles. I don't like medical on good days, and I don't find the idea of being a pincushion relaxing."

They sat together as the episode ended, neither really watching, just enjoying each other for a change. With all that had happened lately, their time together had become drive by quickies or cuddled up sleep. They'd managed a whole meal last time because Bruce had gone to the helicarrier, something he didn't like to do, and brought Chinese with him. Clint was determined they talk rather than fall right into sex then rush off again.

"Well, I definitely think Joffrey's wedding plans are over the top." There was nowhere in the tower that was completely safe from Tony Stark; he didn't really listen in or watch the video despite rumors to the contrary, but if he was looking for something specific? Hell yes, Tony would have Jarvis do a search to find any reference. Honestly, Clint was certain the only reason Tony didn't yet know about the engagement was because they'd had no chance to have any discussions at all. "Rob's was better, running off all quiet like."

"Oh, you made me read that book, remember? All the weddings in that series are pretty much doomed." Bruce's hands wandered along Clint's muscles as he spoke.

"Okay, I'll give you that one." Clint rubbed his hands along Bruce's legs, up and back, a soothing motion. "Maybe we should skip the next episode and watch a romantic comedy instead if you're looking for happy endings."

"_The Runaway Bride_? No thanks." Bruce nuzzled his nose into Clint's longer hair and nipped at Clint's ear. "I miss the earrings. Put them back in for me?"

"They're in the bedroom on top of the dresser." He'd wear them all the time if he could, but that just wasn't feasible.

"I'll get you a diamond stud," Bruce offered. "Maybe I'll wear the other one."

Clint sat up and looked back at him. "Really? I mean, okay, yeah, that would be hot, but how would that work with the Big Guy?"

"A hoop wouldn't work, but a stud would stay in." Bruce shrugged.

"You want to get your ear pierced?" Clint was still surprised.

"I do." He smiled and Clint suddenly got the message. "How about now?"

Exhausted, back still sore, and knowing he was about to fly off again in a day or two, it was the worst timing. Phil was probably at the office, who knew where Natasha was in transit, and there would be paperwork. Showing up at the justice of the peace? Gossip would fly in seconds, cell phone photos and videos impossible to stop. Father Stephen might do it, if he were available at the last minute. He wanted to do this, but run off and get married on a whim rather than with a plan? Okay, he'd come to peace with the whole 'hitch himself to another person forever' thing, even was willing to admit that he wanted the happily-ever-after more than he ever thought possible. And maybe fate just was conspiring against them – hell, Clint's whole life was one long spin on the wheel of fortune – to keep them from ever being happy. Well, he'd always planned on the fly anyway, so why change now?

"There's a lovely little jeweler down near Maggie's. We could grab some dinner afterwards, stop at that bakery two blocks over for some cupcakes?" Clint turned over and pinned Bruce against the edge of the tub.

"You start that and we'll never get out of here," Bruce warned, his voice gone husky as their bodies slid together. "If you want, we can wait until later."

"Now is good. Phil's working on the next mission; who knows how long I've got before the next call?" Still, he let his body float as he kissed Bruce, a long slow exploration hotter than the water in the tub. Finally, he pushed back and opened the drain as Bruce watched him through hooded eyes. They got out, toweling off and kissing again leaning against the granite countertop, mirrors fogged from the steam. The bedroom was cooler as they went to their closet; Clint wasn't certain what to wear for an impromptu wedding, and Bruce didn't have much of an idea either, so they picked out clothes for each other. Clint took out his favorite purple shirt and grey slacks and laid them out for Bruce. A black fitted shirt and slim silver trousers for Clint, with a thin purple tie with a contrasting stripe. The length of Asgardian red silk Clint used as a scarf, tucking under the lapel of his grey wool coat. In his ear, he let Bruce slip one gold loop and that almost derailed the evening when Bruce ran his tongue over the circle and then kissed that spot on Clint's neck.

Leaving was easy; Steve had arrived at the same time as Clint which meant Tony was distracted. Thor was away visiting Jane, Carol and Hank in the lab, Janet with them, so there was no one to run into along the way. That gave them a good hour or two before anyone would miss them. They stopped on the 87th floor and picked up the burner phones Clint had stashed in the back of a drawer in a filing room along with a wallet full of cash. Once they were out on the street, Father Stephen answered on the third ring and didn't laugh when Clint told him why he'd called. Turned out, he was free after the spaghetti dinner for the Haiti mission trip, so they made a tentative appointment to meet him at 8 p.m. at the parsonage.

"You up for dinner with us tonight?" Clint asked when Phil responded to his text with the recognition code. "Maggie's at 6:30ish?"

Silent for a second, Phil processed the fact that Clint was calling on a burn phone and had used a plural pronoun. "Ask Bruce if I need to bring the folder," he finally said. Clint raised an eyebrow at Bruce and mouthed 'folder?' Bruce nodded in response. "Yes, I guess."

"Good. I'll bring Natasha. I just spoke to her and can swing by HQ to get her out of debrief. She won't mind. See you there." Phil hung up.

"Let me guess. Paperwork?" Clint asked Bruce as they paused outside of the jeweler's window.

"He offered. We just need to sign it." Pushing open the door, Bruce went inside the small but elegant store. Simple glass cases held a variety of designs, all unique and handcrafted; Clint had passed the window a number of times and admired the Celtic scrollwork in the beautifully polished silver. The young saleswoman – the daughter of the craftsman – obviously recognized them, but she merely smiled and asked if she could help. The hasty plan had been to get diamonds, but Clint's eyes immediately gravitated to a selection of emeralds held in intricately worked silver. One was a small cuff with a green stone that reminded him of the Big Guy.

"It's a triqueta," she told him, taking it out so he could put it in. Heavy enough to not worry about breaking, but not too large, the piece settled on his ear and Bruce reached out to touch it, his smile making his feelings plain. "A three sided trinity knot."

"Green?" With a laugh, Bruce moved over to the next case. "I'm thinking amethyst. Something sturdy …" He stopped and Clint felt the Hulk's excitement wash down the connection; he'd found something he liked.

"Which one?" Clint bent down to look and knew immediately. The earrings were brilliant purple inside a ring of silver; it would be large in Bruce's ear and small in the Hulk's, a perfect size. Around the edge ran a wisdom knot, tiny lines that interlocked and circled back along themselves. They'd already decided to get the set in case one was lost. "Now we just have to get the piercing."

"We don't do that here," she said. "But Harry around the corner does; he runs the best tattoo parlor in the city."

"Tattoos?" Bruce smiled. "Well, we did talk about that, and it turns out we have time …"

"Harry doesn't do same day service. He's an artist himself, does some of the designs for mom's work. Likes to talk to you and then create something unique." She handed them a card for both stores. "We'll keep your design on file in case you need any replacements. Don't worry, we're discreet. Mom's not interested in the notoriety; she likes making people happy. "They thanked her and left the shop; Clint was already planning on telling Pepper and Natasha and sending them here. Both of them appreciated quality work.

Harry turned out to be a tall, slim man in his fifties with surprisingly few tattoos of his own. His assistant, a younger man with shaggy brown hair, was covered from fingertips up, and tattoos curled along his neck out from under his t-shirt. They were gorgeous pieces of artwork; it didn't take long for them to fall into conversation with the artist while Bruce got his basic stud. Clint held his hand, more for the Big Guy than Bruce, and only a little swirl of color appeared on Bruce's skin. Harry just laughed and said, "Should I incorporate green in the design?"

Maggie's wasn't too full when they arrived at six; they'd called ahead and warned her they were coming so she had a back booth ready and fresh garlic bread was out in minutes. Scrunching in on the same side of the booth, Clint was pressed between the wall and Bruce's warm thigh flush against his own. The first glass of red wine added to the warmth he was already feeling in his gut, and they didn't bother to hide their hands under the table as they tangled their fingers together, laying them on the red checkered cloth for everyone to see. Clint was content, flushed with pleasure, everything else retreating behind the wash of sensations. The smell of garlic and bay leaves, oregano and roasted tomatoes filled his nostrils. The taste of dry wine mixed with crusty, buttery bread in his mouth. Eyes captured colors – red scarf, purple shirt, blue neon of the open sign, and liquid brown eyes. He felt skin against skin, bodies pressed through layers of cloth, and the tactile feel of the smooth glass. The sound of Bruce's laugh, the low chatter of other diners, Maggie shouting at a server filled his ears. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, this was what happiness felt like.

Arriving ten minutes early, Phil had taken off his tie but still wore one of his work suits. Natasha was in a little black dress; she owned far too many of them, and Clint teased her about wearing them under wetsuits like James Bond and his tuxedo. Tossing a file folder on the table, Phil gladly took the glass of wine Maggie brought over, serving them herself with a quizzical eye at Clint. She knew something was up, but she wouldn't ask. He'd be sure and invite her to the party when they made the announcement.

"Finally came to your senses and decided to follow my advice?" Natasha asked as she sipped her wine, snagging the last piece of garlic bread.

"We're meeting Father Stephen at 8 if you are so inclined to join us," Clint shot back with his usual sass. "Phil is automatically invited since he did the paperwork for us."

"You're just pissy because I was right." Natasha didn't blink at Clint's tone. "The whole big shindig would never have worked out."

"We're still doing that. Later. A party or something." Bruce tossed in; he was running his thumb across Clint's fingers, unable to stop touching him. He turned and smiled at Clint.

"Earring." Natasha stopped chewing for a second, her eyes sharp and focused. "That's new. And Clint … damn that's lovely. An emerald? Take it off, let me see." He did as ordered, passing the new piece over; she held it up to the light for a better view and he recognized that covetous look on her face. "A trinity loop? Good choice. Where?"

"Not far from here. I've got the jeweler's card for you. I knew you'd like it." He put the cuff back on.

"What did you pick out?" She asked. Bruce tugged the box out of his pocket and slid it across the table. "Gorgeous wisdom knot. Perfect size for both of you. You plan on wearing it all the time?"

"As much as I can. Clint will have to take his off." Bruce tucked the box back away.

"And the tattoos?" Phil asked. "I thought that was the plan."

"You're scarier than she is." Clint shook his head. "Psychic. That's what you are."

"We'll see the designs next week," Bruce calmly continued the conversation, squeezing Clint's hand.

"A trinity loop or wisdom knot?" Speaking of psychic, Natasha was even worse. She knew Clint's business before he did.

"Both." At least Clint knew one thing she didn't.

A platter of fried zucchini and anti-pasto appeared on the table; the talk turned to other topics and they steered clear of anything work related. Laughter, a second bottle of wine, and Clint nudged Bruce out of the bench to head back to the bathroom before the entrees, whatever Maggie had decided to make for them. He bumped two people coming out of the small hallway and locked the door to the small room behind him. The image he saw in the mirror didn't track with his usual perception of himself; eyes bright with excitement and a flush on his cheeks - good God he looked like a man in love. Zipping back up, he washed his hands in the tiny sink next to the small bureau with paper towels. Lying across the top, next to the hand sanitizer, was an innocuous manila file folder, exactly like the one Phil had brought with him. Out of place in the otherwise neat room, Clint leaned over and looked curiously at the label.

RONIN

All the air left his lungs, and his chest seized up into a tight band. His hands grabbed onto the porcelain edge as cold spiraled down his arms and legs, freezing him in place. For seconds, he couldn't wrap his brain around the five letters even when he knew the file was for him. He hadn't heard that name in years, had tried not to think about that part of his life; he wasn't foolish enough to believe no one knew the identity he'd used on and off, both before he'd come to SHIELD and a few times afterwards. Though they'd never talked about it, both Natasha and Phil knew, and Fury as well, but they would just confront him, not leave some mysterious file out in the open.

He shouldn't open it. His training was kicking in, telling him to call this in, check it for booby traps or other dangers. To run after those people he'd seen in the hallway, find out who they were. All logical, safe responses of a professional. All those possibilities ran through his head as he reached over and flipped it open. Three pictures and two pieces of paper were inside. First was a picture of a lovely dark-haired woman with startling green eyes, smiling shyly at the camera. He recognized her, could remember Bogota, the name of the mark, how he'd made the kill, the way she'd helped him, but not her name. Turning it over, he saw the paper glued to the back, Times New Roman font. _Angela Martinez, 19_. Behind that was another picture of the same woman, this time older, in a maid's uniform surrounded by nuns in full habits. Smiling again, her hands rested on the shoulders of a young girl with dirty knees showing beneath her pleated skirt, white socks slouched down and Mary Janes scuffed around the edges. Brown hair spilled out of her braid and there was a smear of dirt on her white shirt. Blue eyes were filled with mischief as she gazed boldly at the photographer. His fingers shook as he looked at the back. _Angela Martinez, 26, and Margarita Martinez, 7, Our Lady of Perpetual Hope Convent, Espinal, Columbia._

Heartbeat racing, he slipped the birth certificate out, the data corroborating what he already knew in his heart. Margarita Louisa Martinez was born in Espinal, father listed as unknown. Laying the document aside, he looked at the newspaper clipping, an article from two weeks ago. _Cuarto Cadáver Encontrado_, the headline proclaimed. Four dead women, bodies violated and mutilated in the last two months. The policia said they were artfully arranged as if the killer wanted them found, but they didn't know why. Clint did. The m.o. was the same as the man he'd killed all those years ago, Rogero Ochoa. Someone was sending Clint a message.

He flipped over the last picture … and his heart stopped, a flash of white hot anger so strong he hissed out loud. She was older, hair dirty and bedraggled, stuck to her face in uncombed hunks. Dull with pain and despair, her eyes stared listlessly, one half swollen closed, and the other caked with dried blood. Bruised and battered, she held a copy of _Bogota Free Planet_ dated seven days ago under her chin. The caption read: _Margarita Martinez Ochoa, 15. Come and get her before I kill her. J.O._

Knees gave out, and he sank down to the tiles, the picture clenched in his grip. One part of his brain was screaming _no, no, no, no, no_, anger vibrating through his whole body. But another part had been expecting this, had been waiting for the final shoe to drop and shatter everything good. Just like always. He'd done too many terrible things in his life for karma to let him be. How could he ever tell Bruce that he'd used an innocent young woman, left her dangling after a cold-blooded kill, abandoned her pregnant and alone?

He tucked everything back into the folder and tried to breathe normally. The closest stash was in a midtown garage; he had a car with full identities and enough cash to get him to Columbia. He had plans within plans that he didn't have to consciously think about; he could be on his way within the half hour.

"Clint?" Bruce knocked on the door. "You okay?"

Of course, Bruce would know. Clint could sense both Bruce and the Hulk now that he tried; the Big Guy was on the verge of pounding through the door. His gut told him to run – the window was big enough and there was an alley behind – but he caught a glint of the emerald in the mirror, and he knew he couldn't do it, not after insisting Bruce trust him. So he unlocked the door and let him in before the Hulk made his own entrance.

"What's happened?" Bruce's arms were steady and secure, his face going green as the Big Guy made his presence know.

"I've fucked it all up, did something terrible." Clint dropped his head on Bruce's shoulder. "I've got to go take care of it."

"Okay." Bruce caught Clint's chin and tilted his head up so he could look into his eyes. "Where are we going?"


	2. The Riders of Rohan

THEN

"I told you, bitch, to get me more beer!" His father's voice boomed from the living room as Clint huddled on his bed, too scared to come out to go to the bathroom. Still early, his mother would be working on dinner in the kitchen, but his dad had stayed home today, pleading a cold when he was really just hung over like always.

"I bought a whole six-pack yesterday and I couldn't stop today. Roy kept me late to make up for Janice being off on maternity …" His mother tried to explain.

"Stupid cow." Heavy footsteps lumbered down the hallway; Clint slipped under the metal frame, curling up in the back corner into the tightest ball possible. He knew what came next. "You should have done what I asked."

"Harold, we need the money …" She cut off with the sickening sound of meaty fist meeting softer flesh, a groan wrenched from her throat.

"Don't you rub that in my face! I could provide for this family just fine if you hadn't gone and gotten pregnant again." Another thud and tears leaked from the corner of Clint's eyes; he'd learned to cry silently a long time ago. "Get in the car right now, woman. You'll pay in more ways than one."

"But, dinner's on the stove. I know you like to eat right at 5:30," she tried to argue, but he'd already had too much to listen.

"Gimme my keys!" He roared. "We're going to the liquor store and you can buy me a fifth of whiskey."

"Harold, you're too drunk," she protested weakly.

"God damn it, you questioning me?" A crash and his mother cried out once, then bit back her reply. "That's better. Damn dinner, I'm going to teach you a thing or two."

Clint didn't need to see to imagine what was happening, what each sound was as his father dragged his mother out the kitchen door by her hair, slamming her against the counter and kicking the doorframe as he went. More curses from outside, his mother's occasional sob, and then the engine revved and the car backed up with that specific whine it made when someone turned the wheel too hard to the right. Tires squealed and gears ground before the car drove off. He didn't move, too scared to do more than shiver, his Scooby Doo underwear wet now where he'd peed on himself. Sobs wracked his body and he prayed the same prayer over and over again.

"Please, Lord, let him not come back."

It was one of his favorite dreams that his father was gone and it was just his mother, Barney and him. They'd eat macaroni and cheese for dinner, go to the park, and watch T.V. curled up on the couch. She wouldn't be so tired all the time, wouldn't be so sad and no one would ever hit her again. Clint loved that fantasy; it was only slightly better than the one where his real parents showed up, told him they'd been looking for him for years, and took him to live in their lovely little brick ranch house on a street with other kids to play baseball. There'd be family dinners and help with his homework and his own room and maybe even a vacation to Disneyland. He did feel bad about Barney in that one, sometimes adding his brother in to the picture, but usually he was an only child.

Slipping out later, he changed, rinsing out his underwear and pants and hanging them to dry over the radiator so his Dad wouldn't find out and Barney wouldn't make fun of him when he returned from afterschool detention. He saved the roast by turning off the oven and snuck a spoonful of potatoes before sneaking a roll into his room for later; his dad would be angry when they got back and Clint wouldn't get any dinner. Hiding in his room, he waited for someone to come home.

He was still waiting the next morning when the woman in the polyester suit knocked on the door and let herself in the house to tell him about the accident. Looking into the kitchen, Clint saw the cold dinner sitting on the stove then Barney took his hand and they were hustled out of the house into an older model Crown Vic. An office where Clint had soda and crackers was followed by long hours of sitting in a cold metal folding chair and finally another ride to a big brick building with big eyed children all in coveralls watched from windows as the two boys were walked in. Clint went through all of it without any emotion, not even a single tear. He knew they weren't coming back, understood that they were gone like the puppy his father had hated that had followed him home.

And he knew, it was all his fault.

NOW

"A wise man once told me running away didn't solve anything. Something about three being better than one," Bruce said.

"Don't quote my own words at me," Clint grumbled. "This is a completely different situation."

"I won't dignify that with a response." Bruce busied himself making tea with the Lipton bags he'd found in the cupboard. "But I will remind you that I made the same argument."

"Damn it, there's a girl out there who might be … it's not the same." Clint was trying to wrap his head around the pictures in the folder and what they might mean. He wasn't going to just accept it, not without DNA proof – he knew better than that – but really, it didn't matter. Clint was not going to let some sadistic S.O.B. have a fifteen-year-old to torture.

"No, it's not the same," Phil said, setting out the aluminum pans with the take-out Maggie had packed for them. "But you're not going to do this by yourself. That's what they'll be expecting, you to run off half-cocked."

"And I'll kill you if you try to slip away." Natasha was already eating her penne with vodka sauce and cappicola. The scary part of that statement was how calm she was and how much she meant it. The second she'd seen that photo of the girl's battered face, she'd donned her war mask and Clint knew he'd lost the argument before he ever started. Phil might listen to reason, but Natasha was already planning exactly how the bastard who did that would meet his end.

"We need background; we're not going in blind." Phil unwrapped the garlic bread and sat it on the counter. "I can get all the info …"

"No." Clint said. "No SHIELD. You know there are no secrets once something's in the system."

"Then Tony. JARVIS can search …" Bruce started.

"No. No Tony, no SHIELD, no Avengers." Clint was adamant on this point. It was bad enough Bruce knew that there was no way he could keep Phil and Natasha from knowing something had happened when he came back to the table. He'd be damned if he let his past tarnish the best thing he'd found in a long time. "Low key, quiet, in-and-out. No one knows I've been there."

"You can't go in without resources and intel," Phil protested. "I can use level seven access, hide my fingerprints."

"SHIELD still doesn't completely trust me, and you know it. They find out I was moonlighting on their dime?" Clint wasn't going to let that happen.

"Okay, no SHIELD," Bruce agreed.

After opening the file, for a second or two, Clint had forgotten they'd been in a public restroom, probably under surveillance by whoever dropped the file there. Then his instincts kicked in and they'd gone back out, he'd made up an easy excuse, and they'd split up, Bruce and Clint heading back to the Tower, going through security then using the protocol for slipping out unnoticed, the new one Tony had instituted to hide their comings and goings. They'd come back together here, in one of Clint's safe houses in Bed-Stuy.

"We call Rachel. Jace can get us there faster than any airplane with no digital trail. She and Ben can prepare a dossier; hell, she'll probably have it ready when we call."

"RJB Investigations? You trust them?" Of course, Phil knew who Clint was talking about. Phil knew everything. He'd woken from his coma and immediately asked how Clint and Bruce were doing even though they'd started dating after Phil was stabbed by Loki.

"Hell no, but they already know enough to be dangerous, and they'll keep things off the books." Clint had met the three mutants in Charleston, S.C., and they'd been very helpful in getting away from HYDRA and Ross, at least for a while. All of them had government and military backgrounds but they'd gotten burned out and chosen to go it alone, a fact Clint respected. "So, Nat and I go down there, find the girl, kick some ass. You two stay here and be our eyes and ears …"

"No." Bruce growled, the Hulk's deeper tones in his voice. "I'm going."

"Bruce." Clint turned. "We've just gotten to the point where people aren't afraid of the Big Guy. Public opinion is changing; last thing you need is video and pictures of the Hulk smashing up Bogota on a personal vendetta."

"Fuck that." He was changing, green spreading up his neck. "I don't care what people think. I know where you're going and he can get there himself. There's no stopping him."

"I'm not going to mess up your life because of my fuck up. Not going to screw up anyone else's either." He only had a few good things to his name and most of them were right here, offering to walk into hell with him. That knowledge twisted the knot tighter, unspoken emotion lodged in his throat. "Last thing all of you need is your name connected to a washed up merc turned killer."

"Cupid wrong," the Big Guy said, still Bruce sized, thank God. "Hulk already screwed up, hurt many, doesn't care what Cupid's done. Go smash bad guy who hurts little girl."

"She could be my daughter." Clint winced at the word. "I used a woman, left her high and dry and pregnant. I knew what I was doing, damn it. Why would you want someone like that?"

"Because I love you. We all love you." Bruce was back, his hand warm on Clint's back, a tentative touch. "You're more than worth it."

"You are such an idiot." Natasha chided. "Quit being a drama queen. Like none of us have black marks on our souls? This is your chance to erase this one, make it right and we're damn well going with you, so shut up and deal with it."

"God, why do I have such bossy people in my life?" Because, he knew, he needed someone to kick his ass often, make him a better person. "Okay, okay, Nat, Bruce and I go down and …" Phil's calm cool stare stopped him. The agent didn't have to say a word; when Coulson decided to do something, you got out of his way. SHIELD lesson 47. Clint sighed. "Fine. We all go."

"I've got a contact in the Bogota Police we can work with. I'll put in the call," Natasha offered.

"I was in Soacha for a while, working at a free clinic run by nuns. They'll know someone to talk to from the convent," Bruce said.

"I know just who to tap for quiet extraction of information; she's trapped in a cubicle down in the research office. She can get what we need." Phil used one of their burner phones. "And I know just who to use as our Tower insider to get access to JARVIS. We'll need equipment, phones, money … I assume you have a stash here?"

"Updated just a few months ago." As if this was a regular op, they were falling right into planning mode.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Transportation?"

"I'll have Jace meet us here once we're ready to go," Bruce answered, taking Clint's phone. Events were spinning out of his control; Clint sat and listened to the swift flow of words. Bruce squeezed his knee, Natasha bumped her leg against his, and Phil's mouth quirked up in the tiniest of smiles.

Pushy. The lot of them.

And, dear God, he loved them all.

"No, Phil … just no," Clint protested as Melinda May came through the doorway. "I thought we agreed. No SHIELD."

"Nice to see you too, Clint." She was dressed all in black, her leather jacket buttoned up against the cool wind outside. "And I'm so far down in the bowels of records that I don't think I count anymore."

"Your choice," Phil reminded her.

"And I stand by it. Whatever this little party, I'm not combat ready." She glanced at Natasha, gave her a respectful nod, offered a half smile to Bruce. "Research, I can do. No one will be any wiser considering the amount of paperwork I already handle."

"That's all we need, Mel," Phil assured her. She shrugged and walked to the window, checking the perimeter as she went. You could take an agent out of the field, but the training remained. Bruce looked askance at Clint but Melinda's story wasn't his to tell. What was the phrase? There but for the grace of God.

"Let's get started." Clint wanted to get this part over with as soon as possible. Rehashing old memories in front of others wasn't his idea of a fun evening, especially when he'd originally planned to be celebrating his wedding night right about now.

"We've got one more coming," Phil said. "Might as well wait on him before you …"

With perfect timing came a knock on the battered wooden door. Clint opened it to see familiar blonde hair and blue eyes. "No. No. No." He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but this was getting out of hand. "Phil!"

"Don't worry; I'm not going to tell Tony anything." Steve entered the room, nodded at the others and closed the door himself. "We haven't had the pleasure," he said to Melinda.

"Melinda May and you're Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you."

"Tony just accepted you leaving during the homecoming sex marathon? He's eavesdropping, got a parabolic mic pointed right at us by now." Clint couldn't believe it. Melinda's eyebrows rose, but Steve took it all in stride. Never mind that the safe house was covered by Tony's best jammers; if Tony wanted to know what was going on inside, he'd find a way to do it, legal or not.

"Tony's in the lab, has been for a good hour. Some new top secret project – don't tell him I know it's a present for my birthday. Thanks for the idea, by the way, Phil." Steve walked over to Clint and put his hand on Clint's shoulder. "It's okay, Jack."

"Right in the middle of my backswing," he returned. Damn it, Steve was good at saying just the right thing and reminding Clint of their past adventures together wasn't fair. Steve accepted Clint's unspoken apology and went to sit by Bruce. They all waited for Clint to begin.

"Before I was recruited by SHIELD, I took a contract on Rogero Ochoa, the son of one of the original founders of the Medellin Drug Cartel. He'd become a liability but his father wouldn't deal with him, so I was brought in to do it." Clint tried to remember to breathe as the words tumbled from his mouth. "Rogero was just 21, but he'd left a trail of bodies behind him, all girls, the younger the better. The oldest was 12, the youngest 7-years-old. Battered and raped, the bodies were found with designs filleted in their skin."

"Tell me he died poorly." Natasha's face was impassive, but Clint knew the passion that burned behind that mask. She wasn't joking.

"The compound was impossible to get into; the workers and the guards were members of the same families, all of whom owed their allegiance to Ochoa. So I identified a weakness and exploited it." He showed them the first picture. "She was a maid in the main house, and I only knew her as Angel. I played on her fears for her youngest sister, seduced her so she'd get me inside. I did the job with extreme prejudice and left. Never looked back, didn't really care to know what happened next."

"It sounds like you rid the world of a killer," Steve said as he passed the picture over to Melinda who'd come to stand nearby. "No one would blame you for that."

"Someone does. Tonight, this was left where I would find it." Clint passed the article over, giving them a second to read it. "The m.o. is exactly the same as Rogero."

"A copycat?" Steve suggested.

"Who wants your attention," Melinda declared. "A protégée or a sibling, someone who wants to follow in his footsteps."

"Rogero had a younger brother, Julio. Kid was fifteen and lived in the compound." That was the ironic part of this all; Clint knew exactly who had sent him the folder and exactly what he wanted.

"What else?" Melinda was smart and blunt enough to speak her mind. "If it was just revenge, Phil would be working with the local police to solve the case."

"This is personal." He needed a deep breath as he laid out, the picture with the little girl and the birth certificate. Steve picked up the photo, down at the document, then back to Clint.

"You didn't know," Steve said, not a question, a statement. "She looks happy."

Melinda had a little smile on her face. "She looks like trouble. Those knees. Been climbing a tree or crawling in the mud, I'd bet."

"It doesn't matter if she's mine or not." Clint put the final picture on the counter. "He knows that I'll come get her regardless."

"Good God," Steve breathed. Melinda curled a hand into a fist and flashed a look at Natasha. "SHIELD can send someone down there …"

Clint tossed the file, the name clearly visible. Steve waited; being in a relationship with Tony had taught him to bide his time rather than press the point. Melinda's eyes widened and she cursed under her breath. "Well, I lost that bet. Always thought Ronin was a Navy seal. Phil, you dog, you knew and you still took my money."

"Didn't I read a field report from, what, five years ago about an H.Y.D.R.A. operative selling performance enhancing drugs laced with rat poison? I seem to remember the name Ronin as the freelancer hired …" Steve stopped, the pieces clicking into place. "You've kept Ronin alive all this time? Does SHIELD know? Of course they don't."

"Why do you think I knew all those mercs to hire for Loki?" Clint shrugged. It wasn't like he'd been a double agent, he'd just occasionally used the persona to get the job done … or to get a job done that needed doing. "Great way to gather intel."

"So this Julio, J.O. I assume, knows you're both Ronin and Hawkeye." Steve liked to talk things out. "And he has a girl he claims to be your daughter from an illicit affair years ago. You want to go down and rescue her on your own to keep the information quiet and to protect her."

"About sums it up," Clint agreed. Put that way, it all seemed so reasonable. Maybe he should just call in SHIELD or let Tony go blow the place up with his repulsors. Why did he want to keep Ronin secret anyway?

"And you want us to do what?" Melinda asked.

Phil answered for him. "We need information on Ochoa and the compound, old surveillance reports from when we were trailing Clint pre-recruitment during the time of the first killings, anything SHIELD has that might help."

"And me?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, why him?" Clint seconded. He'd wondered what Phil thought Steve could do.

"Steve has backdoor access to JARVIS and Stark tech. Tony gave you override command, did he not? One that even he can't break?" Phil looked at the blonde.

"Yeah. He insisted I have a way to access the system without worrying about him looking over my shoulder. Don't think this was exactly what he had in mind though. And I'm not sure we should be lying to him and the others." Steve held up a hand when Clint began to protest. "However, I understand not wanting to broadcast this information and that Tony has no filter on his mouth, so I'm okay with asking JARVIS for help. But, I reserve the right to change my mind if the shit hits the fan and you need us."

He didn't want to agree to it, but Bruce's direct look and the nudge he got down the line of their connection swayed him. "Agreed. If I'm dying, you can get her out."

"Pretty sure that's my job," Natasha said. "They can come clean up the rest of the mess."

"We also need to fly under the radar; we know there's a mole inside somewhere," Clint continued. "Bruce and I could disappear for a few days, say up North to a little bed and breakfast? Tony would buy that and it's believable."

"And I can honestly say that I knew you were leaving and Tony was in the lab working on his secret project and didn't want to be disturbed. Sometimes dating an obsessive science guy can be useful." Steve offered.

"No one ever knows where the Black Widow is," Melinda said. "But Phil going missing? Lots of people will notice."

"Not if I'm working through potential mission files from my office in the Tower. Amazing thing about technology; emails can be sent, reports and requests for information, without being physically present." Phil had a point; JARVIS would be able to send a steady stream of communication.

"With Thor gone, Tony in his lab, Carol and Hank busy with their projects, you might get three or four days on our end," Steve said. "I doubt you'll need that long, though."

"Why not?" Bruce spoke for the first time since they'd gotten there.

"You think it's a coincidence that this happened now? Right in the middle of all of the fallout from Fisk? And suddenly a mysterious folder appears designed specifically to lure Clint away, expecting you to rush down there all alone. It's connected, all right, even if we can't see how."

Everyone stared at Steve except Clint. He already knew this was a trap for not only him, but all of them. And he didn't plan on avoiding it, but going in head first.


	3. Journey to the Cross-Roads

THEN

"I'm leaving tonight," Barney announced in a hiss as he crouched behind the brick wall, cigarette dangling from between his fingers. He'd taken up smoking because the older boys did it, and he wanted so much to fit in with them rather than be their victim. Their last home before this had hardened Barney; he'd learned from the woman's boyfriend how to intimidate and slice deep with just words. Now, he ran with the very bullies Clint feared; yesterday, Barney had watched as one of his so-called friends tripped Clint at the top of the stairs. If his reaction had been slower, he'd have tumbled down the concrete steps, likely broken his neck before he reached the bottom, and Barney just stood there and laughed. Still, the orphanage was better so far for Clint. Here, there were kids his own age, strength in numbers, classes with teachers who sort of tried to make a difference, and a bedroom he only had to share with Barney.

"W-w-w-where are you going?" Clint stuttered slightly, shirt too thin for the cool October night. Since the day their parents had died, it had been Clint and Barney against the system; even with the changes in his brother, Clint couldn't imagine him leaving. Sure, he ran off for days at a time – just last night he'd skipped out after hours and was gone most of the night – but he always came back.

"The carnival's leaving in the morning. Man who runs the games said he'd give me a job. Make my own money and get the hell out of here." As he spoke, Barney's cuff rode up and Clint saw bruises around his wrist, an imprint of fingers. Barney's eyes narrowed, and he jerked the too small shirt, trying to cover up.

"Barney." Clint wanted to ask, but knew better; his brother wouldn't answer. He'd stopped explaining things to Clint in the second foster home after catching the sixteen-year-old son holding Clint down on a bed. Tickling, that's what the boy had said, but Clint had been terrified of those searching fingers that cupped him and squeezed. Barney had beaten the kid half-to-death despite their size difference; the Barton boys were shipped out the very next day and branded troublemakers.

"Shut up, kid. When you're older, you'll understand. You do what you have to, okay?" He stubbed out his cigarette and pushed away from the wall. "Better than this shit. We could see the country, eat cotton candy all the time."

"We?" Both joy and worry crowded Clint's chest.

"You and me, Spud. Hell, maybe see our name in lights one day as a headliner. Could happen." Barney picked up a pack and slung it over his shoulder. "You coming?"

Clint thought about his new friend and Mr. Holloway the math teacher who'd said he was a good student. Then there was the clean sheets and warm room, the two comic books stashed under his mattress, and three pairs of pants. He'd just started making a place for himself here; did he really want to leave?

"Hey, if you want to wimp out and stay in this shithole, no skin off my back." Barney's face turned dark at Clint's silence. "Wallace will be on your ass in a day, and I can give mine a rest. But you go right ahead and pretend they give a shit about you." He turned to go, anger written in the set of his shoulders.

"No, wait, I want to go, really," Clint grabbed for his brother, his voice rising in his panic. "It's just … I wanna go get my stuff, okay? Just thinking of how to slip in and get it."

Barney glared at him in the light of the waxing moon and then the anger bled off as he slumped down. "Yeah, use the drainpipe by the window. I'll give you a leg up. Only what you can carry; I'm not lugging none of your shit around when you get all whiny and tired."

Doubt gnawed at him like a rat working on an escape hole. Fear or not, Barney was his brother, his only family, and family stuck together. Clint had no idea what he'd do at a circus; hell, he'd never even been to one before, just seen it on the TV or read about it in battered books from the library. He remembered a lion tamer and a man who threw hatchets at a girl with balloons. Maybe they'd let him fill up the balloons or have a whip that cracked. Shimmying up the pipe, he tried not to think about the warm blanket he was leaving behind or the thin pillow that was still the best he'd had in a while. Tossing as much as he could fit into the pillowcase, he hurried, worried that Barney would go without him and leave him all alone.

NOW – BOGOTA, COLUMBIA

The sun was down by the time they got settled into the house in Bogota. Clint was coming to expect quality work from Rachel and her team, and they hadn't let him down this time. Instead of a hotel where tracking a credit card would be easy and cash would stand out, he'd expected a fly-by-night arrangement with rates by the hour. But they'd arrived in the interior garden of a lovely home in North Bogota. Two cars sat in the garage – a Subaru Outback and a Jeep Cherokee – and Rachel had sent along laptops with firewalls. A stucco wall hid the house from the quiet suburban neighborhood, but just a few blocks walk was a lively street with shops and restaurants where families shopped and dined. A number of houses nearby were corporate rentals, leased out to some of the oil companies, so no one would blink twice at seeing new people. Along with three big bedrooms, full baths, and a gourmet kitchen, the house boasted a state-of-the-art security system, upgraded by Rachel's brother Ben, the ex-NSA computer specialist, with all the bells-and-whistles. Jace, the ex-marine mutant who could teleport, had offered to stick around, help them out, and Clint had been sorely tempted to take him up on the offer. He was a handy guy to have around in a fight and the perfect under-the-radar component, a complete unknown variable. But Clint had turned him down precisely because of that fact. Jace, Rachel, and Ben were assets he wasn't ready to burn through just yet; if Clint survived long enough, he might need their help later, and he wasn't ready to call that marker in.

Natasha gave him a tap on the shoulder and promptly disappeared, off to track down her contact in the Bogota PD. Of all of them, she was the ace-in-the-hole, his endgame. If Julio had any brains to go along with the flow of information he must be getting from his sources, he'd know that Bruce was more than likely with Clint, so the Hulk would be a possibility. That was why Clint wanted to keep the Big Guy benched until the very last scene of this little play. Phil was the voice in his ear, the flow of information and lifeline back to the team and SHIELD. Clint figured they had about seventy-two hours before someone realized Phil was gone; this whole thing was going to be over in less than twenty-four, once they started the ball rolling, Clint estimated. That left Natasha as his primary backup and, if given a choice, he'd have her standing beside him when the world exploded every time. She'd make sure Margarita was rescued if Clint couldn't; Julio might know all about the infamous Black Widow, but he'd never see her coming.

"The compound's not airtight," Phil said, tossing a section of the outer perimeter over to Clint's screen. "They use Vigilante Services for the security system. Top end, very expensive, the best in the world … and a wholly owned subsidiary of Stark Industries. JARVIS sent the backdoor to the code; we can enter here and be virtually unseen. We'll also have feeds from all the cameras and can override their monitors if need be. Got to love Stark's insistence on ways in to everything he makes."

"Tony Stark's motto. It's not paranoia if someone really is after you." Clint zoomed in to the main house plans, pleasantly surprised by the realistic 3D rendering. "This is detailed. Stark tech again?"

"Combined with intel from a DEA informant who managed to get a walk through as part of the tech team Ochoa hired to wire the whole house. Guy was undercover for three years making a name for himself by putting Wi-Fi in the homes of some of the world's worst drug dealers," Phil noted. "Smart man. Didn't use tech at all for his recon; he's got an eidetic memory. Put in real Wi-Fi and stereo and panels to control the lights while he memorized the places."

"Finally heard back from Sister Francis," Bruce said as he walked into the dining room which had been turned into a makeshift command center; they'd covered the room with the best jamming device not yet on the market. Tony and his toys. "I'm going to meet her tomorrow morning; didn't want to reveal anything over the phone, so she thinks I'm in town and just want to see how the clinic is doing. Seems some foundation poured serious money into the place a little over a year ago; they've got brand new equipment she wants to show off, a whole neo-natal unit that's one-of-a-kind in the area. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

That last question was directed at Clint and, thankfully, he could answer it honestly. "I'll give you three guess and only a billionaire crazed inventor counts. I caught Pepper asking questions about my old orphanage, the one I ran away from to join the circus; Tony's been giving donations to all sorts of places through his myriad of companies and charities. Pretty sure that's the answer."

It was so Tony to do nice things quietly while being his usual pain-in-the-ass self. That was how Stark showed he cared; throwing money away by buying outrageous things for the people in his life. Lichtenstein paintings for the Hulk's room, a 1941 World Series autographed baseball for Steve, and a wet dream of a lab for Hank and Carol. He'd given Clint a Ducati for Christmas, after all. Meanwhile, he funded free clinics that Bruce had worked at, created scholarships and internships for kids from the orphanage Clint volunteered at, and paid for continual upkeep on the graves of all the men Steve had served with in the war without saying a word.

"I'm not going to complain." Bruce carried a steaming cup of herbal tea – where did he get that from? Was the kitchen stocked with their favorites? – and examined the screen over Clint's shoulder. "Too many babies die because they can't get access to something as simple as an incubator. I just wish Tony would tell me these things."

"Nah, he doesn't want the world to know he's a pushover under that smartass exterior. I can understand that impulse." Clint stopped to watch the play of light on Bruce's face as he took off his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt tail and put them back on with even more smudges than before. The simple act was so familiar that Clint felt a pang in his chest at the sight.

"Is this how we're getting inside?" Bruce asked, his eyes following the schematics. Clint shot a look at Phil behind Bruce's back.

"No, that's how Natasha is getting in. She's the ghost on this mission." Clint dreaded the next question, knowing where the conversation was leading.

"Ghost?" Bruce asked.

"They won't know she's there until she wants them to," Phil answered. He raised his eyebrow, his way of telling Clint to get on with it. Bruce needed to know the plan; the others had worked together so long, they were practically psychic about the best strategies.

"And what about the rest of us?" A note of bass crept into Bruce's voice; he suspected.

"Just Nat and I will be on the ground. Phil's the handler, and you'll be with him, the reserve team." And there it was, laid out before them. Bruce's eyes flashed and green mottled his skin.

"No. No way are you going in there without the Other Guy. What are you thinking, that you'll just walk right up and knock on the door? Hey, here I am, give me the girl, please, thank you?" Bruce was angry and growing bigger as he spoke. "Not a good plan. Hulk going with Clint to smash bad guy and save our girl."

If he'd had time, Clint's jaw would have dropped, and he'd have stared at the half-formed big green guy at the use of the plural pronoun. But he was too busy keeping the Hulk from crashing through the ceiling and destroying the room. "Listen to me, Big Guy. Just give me a second to explain, okay? Don't get any bigger; we need to stay under the radar right now."

The Hulk huffed and shrank back to only slightly bigger than a full-time bodybuilder, stomping his feet a little like a petulant child before he grumbled, "Okay. Cupid say why he has stupid idea."

"We don't know where Julio is keeping Margarita or even if she's in the compound at all, so we can't go in, knock down walls and get to her. Odds are, he's expecting that frontal assault. Plus, I'm sure he's connected to the whole Morden/Fisk mutation and super-soldier scheme, remember? We need stealth to find out what exactly is going on." Clint spoke calmly and with what he hoped was confidence. "Natasha's going in quietly to case out the place and will pass the information on to Phil to examine. You'll be close by; once we know what we're up against and formulate the plan of attack, you have the most important job of all – making sure Margarita is safe. I'm trusting you with this, Big Guy. You're the only one who can do it."

"Hulk protect Cupid and girl," he argued, but he was decreasing in size, Bruce exerting control again. "Do both."

"She's your first priority. I can take care of myself; she's only fifteen." Clint knew he'd gotten through when Bruce lifted his hand to rub his forehead.

"And what about you?" Bruce asked, a tired slump to his shoulders as he gave in. "You're the distraction, aren't you? To give Natasha time."

"It's what I'm good at," Clint mock protested. "He'll be so wound up dealing out his dastardly scheme that he'll miss her. And don't forget that I can contact you in a way he won't expect and can't control. You'll always know where I am."

"Oh God, Clint." Bruce picked up his tea cup to take a long sip; his fingers shook slightly, the porcelain clinking as he sat it back down. "Is this what you do when you go off on missions? Throw yourself into the volcano like a sacrificial victim?"

"Hey, at least you didn't call me a virgin, Doc," Clint joked, but he couldn't get a glimmer of a smile from Bruce.

"This isn't a standard mission," Phil said, injecting himself for the first time into the conversation. "Normally, Clint would be considered compromised and pulled off the strike team. But in this case, he's right; Ochoa is obsessively fixated on Clint. SHIELD has been monitoring the situation and the young man's mental state is deteriorating, growing more and more erratic, noticeably so in the last ten to twelve months. He won't be able to resist the temptation Clint presents."

"He wants to kill Clint. Are you really okay with knowing that he's walking into the hands of a serial killer?" Bruce asked Phil. Clint shifted, uncomfortable with this turn of conversation.

"No. I'm never comfortable sending any agent into a dangerous situation. But there's a chance we might be able to follow the trail back to whoever is pulling the strings on this information sharing party of the world's villain network. We have viable information that Ochoa is in communication with someone who's encouraging his vendetta. We've got to take the shot, Bruce. And Clint is more than capable of doing this." Phil always made even the craziest of ideas sound so feasible.

"I know Clint can do it, if anyone can. I just don't have to like watching him walk into a blender without me." His brown eyes met Clint's, the emotions clear. Clint didn't want to think about not coming back either, but it was part and parcel of his job. Reaching out a hand, he touched Bruce, running his palm down Bruce's arm in comfort.

"His name is Daniel Reiz, son of one of the gardeners," Natasha said from the doorway. She tossed Phil a jump drive; he plugged it in and a picture came up on the screen of a young man with dark brown hair and big dark eyes. He was skinny, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and was wearing a Catholic school uniform. "The picture's a few years out-of-date. He's eighteen now and studying Ornamental Horticulture at Penn State. Kid contacted the DEA himself and offered his help; seems the younger Ochoa is a real nightmare and daddy Ochoa is semi-retired, leaving the whelp in charge. All the parientes, the families who work for them, are scared but can't leave. DEA put him in touch with a local agent."

"Kid's inside now? Can we use him to target the location?" Phil asked, all business.

"He's in the States and won't be home until the end of his first semester. State College isn't all that far from New York; if we could get someone out there to talk to him, we could ask where Julio keeps his playthings." Natasha dropped down into a dining room chair and propped her feet up in another after kicking off her boots. "Seems Reiz might be smitten with one of Julio's girls, according to my contact, so he may know where they're kept."

"May still has her flight rating and keeps her certification up-to-date. She could be there in a few hours; maybe Steve could go with her. Mel can wring a confession from a hardened criminal, but a teenage boy might find her a little overwhelming." Phil picked up one of the many phones he had spread on the table and began a text message, the first in a series of coded missives used to throw anyone off their track.

"What's our timeline?" Natasha studied the layout on the screen with a practiced eye. "JARVIS get all the flight plans arranged?"

"Earliest arrival would be about 10 a.m. local time, assuming a private jet. JARVIS created video footage of him leaving about one a.m. Eastern standard and filed a flight plan for one of Tony's jets to leave at 3:30. But we also booked three commercial flights in different names on major airlines, and they range from 6 six hours direct to over 10 hours with a layover. So Ochoa will have to expend some energy watching the airports," Phil explained.

"Good. That gives you time to sleep." She pushed back up, fluid and smooth as always. "You two didn't get any downtime since your last mission and you know my rule about working with zombies. Don't make me enlist the Hulk's help." She eyed Phil and Clint.

"There's too much to get done," Clint argued.

"I'll take the second watch," Phil ignored him. "Not as young as I used to be; a couple hours sounds good. You'll need to coordinate the visit with May, and I'm waiting on those reports from the local PD. They should be in within the hour. I'll take the downstairs bedroom." He gave Clint a pointed look and left the room. The message was hard to miss.

"Bruce, I'll send him up in just a few minutes." Natasha didn't need to explain that she wanted to have words with Clint. "Mostly intact."

"You're on your own," Bruce said as he passed.

"Is this a shovel speech about not hurting Bruce because you're a little late for that." He went for flippant, but it came out far too whiny for his comfort. Not that Natasha hadn't heard him complain before, usually just before she kicked his ass.

"You need to get your head on straight or I won't let you within a mile of that compound."

"Excuse me?" That pissed him off. "Who made you my keeper?"

"You did. Remember Helsinki?" She said. Damn. He'd forgotten that little drunken confession; he'd been ready to leave SHIELD and she'd talked him out of it. "We do this, we do this smart. That means you leave all your baggage behind and go in cold and clear. Stop thinking you're a fuck-up. That girl needs you at your best, not half-dead already from beating yourself up. Suck it up, go upstairs, take that handsome doctor who loves you for some unknown reason to bed, and get some sleep. Then we're going to get her."

She always could cut right to the heart of the matter. "Assuming Bruce still wants me, I think I'll take you up on that offer." He saw the smile in her eyes as much as on her face. "Kick me anytime."

"I will when you need it." She shooed him out of the room as she settled in front of Phil's laptop. "Now get going."

The hanging stairs of the modern home were lit by soft runners along the outside; the walls were large concrete slabs left unfinished grey. They'd dropped their bags in the master at the top of the staircase, and Clint pushed the door shut as he entered. Bruce had kicked off his shoes and Clint's tongue froze in his mouth, all the things he wanted to say trapped behind it.

"After everything we've been through, you have to know that I'm not going to change my mind because of something you've done in your past." Bruce just confronted it head on. God, Clint loved that about the man. "And I agree with what the Other Guy said. We might not have made it to the church on time, but that's a formality. I'm already in this for the long haul."

"Jesus, Bruce, just take all the wind out of my sails." Clint felt his anxiety begin to dissipate. "Next you'll tell me I'm not a self-centered bastard for wanting to get you naked instead of talking about our feelings."

"I thought you'd never ask." Bruce began unbuttoning his shirt. "No way am I sending you off without kissing you senseless. And you know the Other Guy's going to want a cuddle. So take off your clothes, will you?"

He couldn't be this lucky, could he? No "why didn't you tell me" or "how can I trust you" or the dreaded "we need to talk"? He realized he was hesitating; Bruce already draped his shirt across the back of a chair and was working on his pants. Catching the edge of his t-shirt, he pulled it up over his head and hurried to catch up. They'd left their suits back at the Tower in those brief moments before they'd headed to the safe house; Clint kept go packs ready to grab and he'd taken time to add one for Bruce in the NYC stashes in case Ross had shown up again. The need to run was always lurking in the shadows every day and preparations were a habit Clint would never break.

"You know how I feel about nature, right?" Bruce plucked a tube out of the pack and tossed it onto the bed. He circled Clint's wrist with his long fingers and tugged him towards the bed. Clint's jeans were open, hanging off his hip as Bruce sat him down on the edge and knelt to help untie his boots. The question seemed odd, but Clint went with it.

"I do eat at the same table with you and Tony. Fracking 101 I believe was the last, ahem, discussion the two of you had." He enjoyed the view, the long line of Bruce's spine curving as he bent his head to focus on his task. Clint couldn't resist swirling his fingers along the shoulder blades as they moved. "Not sure what your passion for the environment has to do with this. Oh, wait, naked equals natural, right? Is that it?"

Setting the boots aside, Bruce slid his hands up Clint's thighs, along his chest and pushed him backwards onto the bed. With a swift tug, Bruce yanked Clint's jeans down and quickly divested him of his underwear. Then he crawled onto the bed, on his hands and knees, hovering over Clint. "You're going to think I'm crazy …" He aligned their bodies as they both shifted back from the edge into the center of the bed.

"Yeah, sorry, crazy train has already left the station for both of us. Normal isn't a word any of us can use anymore." Clint wondered exactly what Bruce was getting at, and why he was waiting when Clint's fingers were itching to do more than wrap themselves around Bruce's shoulders.

"It's just, naked is open, right? Nothing to hide, no masks to wear, just us. Everything laid bare, out where we can see it." He was driving at something, but Clint still didn't follow.

"You're going to have to be plain, Doc. Just say it." He swiped his thumb along the side of Bruce's face, running his fingers into the dark curls. "Pretty sure I'm going to say yes to whatever it is."

"Damn it, the timing's never going to be right, is it?" Bruce took a breath, and the smile that spread across his face was soft, full of promise and emotion, the kind even Clint rarely saw. "Fine, we'll just do this ourselves. I'll see if I can remember how it goes."

Clint cocked his head and waited.

"I, Robert Bruce Banner, take you, Clinton Francis Barton …." He began.

"Wait, wait, what?" Clint interrupted, pushing up on his elbows and forcing Bruce to sit back on his heels. "You want to do that here? Now? Like this?"

"Yes. Here. Now. Like this. Before you leave. So you know that I mean it." A shadow of doubt clouded his eyes. "If you don't want …"

"Yes, yes, hell yes, Doc, you just surprised me. I mean … well, the photos will be a bit awkward to post on Facebook, but what the hell." Thing was, Clint hadn't realized just how much he did want to know that Bruce still felt the same. "Sorry for interrupting. You go right ahead so I can repeat after you."

Leaning back down, Bruce dropped a quick kiss on Clint's lips then started over.

"I, Robert Bruce Banner, take you, Clinton Francis Barton to be my husband … in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, for better or for worse from this day forward, so long as we both shall live." He was grinning again, a sappy love-struck smile that Clint knew he'd remember forever. "Oh, hell, Clint. I can't remember all of it. If you'll have me, I'll let you."

He bit back his laugh; this was perfect. "I, Clinton Francis Barton, take you, Robert Bruce Banner, and you, the Hulk, to be my husband for better or worse, in sickness and health, for bigger or smaller as long as we all live." Rolling them over, he trapped Bruce beneath him. "I'll take every part of you as often as you'll let me until I can only _think _about taking you in a manly fashion and even then I'll still want you."

"Even if we can just dream about it," Bruce chuckled; he put a foot flat on the bed, settling Clint's partially aroused cock next to his own already half-hard one. "Shouldn't someone say husband and husband now?"

"You just did, Doc, but I'll second it. Doesn't matter now, you're mine. Can't run away anymore, okay?"

"We run together. That's a promise. Can I kiss you now to seal the deal?"

"As you wish."

Clint was happy that Bruce's kiss wasn't pure and sweet, but the sexy plundering that he liked the most. He opened his mouth and invaded the moist recesses with his tongue. It wasn't legal, of course, but just hearing the words out loud settled his fears and made him feel that there was something permanent in his life. Rolling his hips, he used the slide of bodies to work both of their cocks along each other as they kissed; he pushed the tiny frisson of awareness back when it crept into the base of his skull. Tomorrow was tomorrow, he told himself, and this was now. Whatever was going to happen, he had a family, friends, people who cared about him now. He knew love and that was, in the end, worth it all.

He settled back so he was balanced on his knees, pushing Bruce's thighs apart and resting them on his own. The move left Bruce spread out before him, and Clint began to trace the lines of Bruce's chest with broad slow strokes, memorizing the curves left by the lean muscles. He catalogued the places where Bruce jumped, when he closed his eyes, when his breathing speeded up, and when he moaned low in his throat. With easy thrusts, he kept rubbing their cocks together, and they both hardened, pearly drops leaking as Clint drew designs along Bruce's thighs, inside and outside. He reached for the tube buried in the covers.

"Angel's grandmother had the sight." For some reason, the story came tumbling out; Clint had never told anyone what she'd said to him that night fifteen years ago and now seemed the oddest time to mention it, but he couldn't stop himself. "Supposedly, she inherited it and she told me some things that night, things I didn't believe and didn't want to hear. Told me that we were important, would 'change the fate of the world.' You can imagine what I thought of that. I assumed she meant me taking out Rogero." Slick fingers brushed the sensitive area just behind Bruce's balls then circled, Clint's hand finding all the right spots to tease. He dipped his head back down and caught one of Bruce's nipples, worrying it in his teeth before he continued. "Strangest thing, though, was that she said I'd be back, but a different me." He glided his palm along the hard ridge of Bruce's cock. "Felt bad about her making me out to be all white hat when I wasn't." The pad of his thumb pressed along the cleft in the flush head and Bruce moaned, pushing up with the balls of his feet to get more leverage. Sitting up, Clint used his other hand to smooth more gel around the tight muscle before he eased a finger inside. "But then she told me I wouldn't be alone and we'd save the world not once, not twice, but a dozen times over before we were done." Advance and retreat, loose fist around Bruce's cock, hot clench around his fingers … the scent of arousal hung heavy in the air as the words sank around them.

"Clint," Bruce groaned his named, looking at him through eyes hooded with pleasure. "You aren't alone anymore."

"I know." He wiped his fingers on Bruce's thigh, slicked his cock and filled him slowly, a steady plunge into that heat he loved. Seated all the way in, he ran his hands along Bruce's thighs, up to his hips and settled there, tightening his hold as he held Bruce steady, calming the shivers that ran through his lover's body. "I have both of you. And you have me. In ways I could never have imagined back then."

He felt the clench of Bruce around his cock, so good and so tense, and if he shut his eyes, he could sense Bruce's emotions, the stretch and burn of arousal. A pulse out and back in, and Clint felt the ripples of it through their connection, like a doubling effect. He fell into an easy pace of thrusts, riding the waves, building them gradually until the distant echo of the Hulk was there like a pair of arms wrapped around both. They didn't need words; the closer to the edge, the stronger the connection became. Clint could hear Bruce's love, as steady and calm as he was at his most controlled and as wild and large as the Hulk at his angriest. He answered back his trust and surety, the unshakeable faith he had in this man who'd just promised him forever. The waves began to crest as they neared the end, ten minutes or thirty or however long, time lost to the sensation of plunging and rising together until they crashed into the shore. Clint's fist stroked Bruce to his climax, and he came with a wordless cry, squeezing around Clint, ensuring that he followed quickly.

Bruce rolled them over onto their sides and they lay together, lazy kisses unrushed by need. They touched and smoothed across bare skin, slowly cooling, uncaring of the sticky mess of their bodies. Murmured words of endearment, looks that exchanged volumes, long drawn out sighs – Clint hid his head in the curve of Bruce's neck, sure he looked like the besotted fool which he was.

"She was right. You are a hero and you've saved the world a few times already." Not one to let it go, Bruce tucked his fingers into Clint's hair and messed it up even more. "Maybe she did have a gift."

Naked, sated, his emotions wide open, Clint had to tell him the rest. "She said one more thing. It was so strange I didn't give it a second thought until now. 'Good fathers can change the fate of the world.' God, I thought she was talking about Ochoa; never entered my mind she could mean me."

"Clint, look at me." Bruce held Clint's face between his hands, their bodies still intertwined. "This is the worst time to talk about this, but you know I can't have children of my own, right? The accident and the radiation – it's just not possible." Clint couldn't look away from the pain in Bruce's eyes, a wound so old it had become part of who he was. "Whatever happens – if she is, if she isn't – whatever you decide to do with that information – I'm with you, okay? I mean, I'll help you raise her if you want to do that. Or we'll find a good place for her where she'll be safe. Whatever you want. Just know, all options are open for discussion."

"Bruce." Too overcome to find the words to answer him, Clint kissed him instead, holding him as close as he could, wrapping himself around Bruce's strength. "God, I love you."

He could feel Bruce hardening again against his thigh, so Clint raised his leg and notched it between Bruce's providing friction. With a growl, Bruce rubbed along the skin, quickly leaving a sticky trail where the tip of his cock bumped Clint's hip. This time, there was urgency, as if naming the problem brought it into the room. Too soon for Clint to come again, his cock still stirred half-heartedly, his heart ready even if his body wasn't. That was okay though because Clint knew what Bruce liked, and he could enjoy Bruce's release along with him. Breaking the kiss, Clint rolled over onto his other side; Bruce pulled him back against his chest, pushing Clint's top leg up in front of him. Lips tugged on Clint's ear, worked their way down his neck to the very spot where his artery pumped in time to his heartbeat; Bruce latched on and sucked hard, marking Clint as his just as he'd done before. Teeth grazed his neck and Clint groaned as the pulse of Bruce's desire flooded into Clint. He ignored Bruce's scrabbling to find the lube, reveling in the feel of Bruce around him, the safety of being held so tight.

Still sated and relaxed from before, Clint opened easily for Bruce's slick fingers, and Bruce whispered the list of things he'd love to do to Clint against the skin as if to write them in place. Then Bruce was pushing in, filling him, sliding so deep Clint could feel him in the very bottom of his soul. Levering himself up, Bruce thrust hard, snapping his hips, and Clint rolled his shoulders flat on the bed, twisting at the waist so he could reach up and hold onto Bruce as if he was a lifeline. The pace was faster, and Clint met each new thrust, jolts rolling through him when Bruce hit the right spot. Bruce's muscles tensed and he squeezed his eyes shut just before he came, dipping his head to rest on Clint's shoulder as he shuddered through his second climax.

"Do you need me to …" Bruce flopped over to the side but he slipped a hand around Clint's hip.

"Going to be a bit before I can get it up again," Clint laughed, a tiredness sweeping over him. He closed his eyes for a second that turned into minutes and the parts of him that weren't snuggled up to Bruce started to cool down. The bed shifted as Bruce got up.

"Give me a second and I'll be right there," Clint mumbled. Then Bruce was wiping him clean and big strong arms gathered him up, pulled back the covers and deposited him into the warm spot. He opened his eyes, as the Hulk crawled in beside him. "Not our bed, Big Guy, so you might want to watch the weight load."

"Cupid like Hulk little?" He asked with a hurt tone in his voice.

"I like you every way, for bigger or smaller, remember? Just don't want to go crashing through the floor, that's all. Think I might sleep for a bit." Clint didn't complain when the Hulk, slightly bigger than Bruce sized, curled up behind him and held him tight.

"Hulk married?"

"Well, not technically, but in all ways that matter, Big Guy. You're stuck with me now."

"Good. Hulk take Cupid too."

THE OCHOA COMPOUND, OUTSIDE OF BOGOTA, 3:42 P.M.

He waved at the camera, shifting onto the balls of his feet and bouncing. Dressed in black, gold trim on his jacket as a nice little nostalgic touch, he rested his hands on the hilts of his katanas as he waited.

"Hello," he called.

"¿Quien es usted?" A voice asked. "¿Qué quieres?"

"Tell Julio that Clint Barton is here. I think you'll find he's expecting me."


	4. The Uruk-Hai

THEN

He ran, tracking between tents, crouching behind stalls, trying to lose himself in the shadows. Ahead, the Big Top loomed, its flags flapping in the stiff wind, and he darted into the dark confines, hoping to find a place to hide. The stands were empty, trash still underneath from the performance earlier; he crawled beneath, hands and knees so sticky with dropped pieces of cotton candy and the fake butter from the popcorn. He froze at every sound, trying so hard not to crinkle any paper or rattle the rusty metal struts that held the boards above him.

"I know you're in here, boy," Duquesne's voice echoed in the empty space. "You come on out and I'll go easy on you."

Clint wasn't that gullible. No mistaking, the money in Duquesne's hands was from Carson's safe. He'd stolen it and Clint had walked in on him. The last few years had taught him Duquesne's preferred method of dealing with problems, and Clint was firmly in the problem column now. He knew the Swordsman was going to kill him for what he'd seen.

Moving as quietly as he could, he kept going, aiming for the performer's entrance. If he could get there, he might make it across the empty expanse and out into the night. His shoulder brushed a strut and he paused, waiting for a reaction; only silence greeted his ears. Where was Duquesne? When he spoke, Clint had placed him by the main entrance, but now he could hear nothing at all, no breathing, no footfalls, just eerie quiet. Clint's own breath was harsh in his ears, too loud for comfort. Only one section remained before the opening. His heart thumped so hard he was sure it was going to blow out of his chest as he sized up the distance. Scooting closer, his eyes adjusted to darkness, he could see the dim light through the crack where the flap wasn't tied tight enough. He could make it. The training he'd gotten from Duquesne was both a blessing and a curse. Taking to the bow like he'd been born with one in his hand, he was better now than both of them, more agile, more accurate. The Swordsman had become angry lately, taking out his frustration on Clint. Every time the crowd cheered for Clint and seemingly ignored Duquesne, the tension grew between them.

Why hadn't he just walked away? Made some glib comment, taken a payoff and let Duquesne get on with whatever he was doing? But no, he'd had to threaten to call the cops, the worst thing he could say. Even now, after all the people who had lied and cheated and hurt him, had smacked him around and held him down and cut him until he bled, Clint still wanted to believe there was good in the world, that right and wrong mattered. Damn streak of heroism was going to get him killed, maybe today.

Still no sign of Duquesne and only a foot or so to go. He could sprint from here, make the exit fast and be gone before anyone knew it. Gathering his strength, he rocked a bit, tensing his muscles, then sprang forward, scuttling along in a crouch until he cleared the end of the stands.

"Got you."

A hand reached for Clint's sleeve, grabbing the cotton of his sweatshirt, and Duquesne towered over him, face hard set and half-shadowed. His fist caught Clint in the shoulder, and Clint rolled just like he'd been taught, going with the force of the motion. Twisting his slim torso, he wrenched his arm out of the sleeve, ducked his head, and left the bigger man holding a limp shirt. The exit blocked, Clint ran into the rings, curses following right behind as Duquesne kept pace, just a step behind. Catching the rope ladder, Clint clambered up, his small size an advantage in the race to the platform. Duquesne was larger, his old knee injury slowing him down as he climbed the rungs. Twice, Clint slipped, his hands slick with sweat, and Duquesne grabbed his pants leg. Shaking him off, Clint made it to the top, kicked off his shoes, and started across the tightrope. This, he knew, Duquesne couldn't do. If he got to the middle platform, there was an access ladder to the top of the tent; Clint was often the one who crawled up there and helped anchor the whole structure during set up. He could wait it out there until morning or call out for help.

"I'd have enjoyed feeling you die beneath my own hands, boy." Duquesne was out of breath, wheezing slightly. "Cocky little bastard, so sure of yourself. You would have gotten old one day too, Clint, and not been the star anymore. Someone better would come along and nobody would give a damn about a washed-up has been marksman. You might have understood if you lived that long … but you're not going to."

Clint was past halfway and he rushed it, trying to not listen to Duquesne's words and focus instead on his balance. A vibration was his first warning; he dropped, reaching his hands for the rope, hoping to wrap himself around it before the Swordsman could shake it hard enough.

"Hell of a way to die, Clint." Duquesne laughed. "But you always were going to fall one day."

His hands missed, fingers barely brushing the rope before he was falling, gravity pulling him down towards the ground, no net beneath him. Face up, he could see Duquesne leaning over the edge of the platform, could watch the rope recede. His life didn't flash before his eyes. He didn't have time to think anything at all before the he slammed into the ground and pain engulfed him.

**NOW**

The Ochoa compound hadn't changed all that much since the last time Clint had been there. Except this time, he had come in through the main gate, walking up the road towards the house with the rows of glass windows that reflected the glare of the afternoon sun and would provide spectacular views of the sun when it set in a few hours. There used to be a small grove of trees around a little pond just down the hillside, but it was empty ground now, no sign of the perch he'd used to steady his rifle and taken the shot that ended Rogero's string of murders. New security cameras were evident everywhere, tiny boxes that were still outdated by Tony's criteria even though there were the latest available on the market. Men with guns roamed the yard, razor wire along the top of the wall, sensor plates on the front porch … all pointed to paranoia on Julio's part. That tracked with the information Clint had crammed into his brain after he woke this morning. The Bogota Police had the Ochoa youngest son on the top of their suspect list, but his powerful family kept them from investigating further. People who went against the cartel disappeared into unmarked graves, and far too many of the detectives would rather take the pay off and keep quiet than risk their lives to solve the case.

Yet witness after witness told of a young man who'd been scarred psychologically from birth; his mother, an exotic dancer who snorted much of her generous allowance up her nose, taking payment in cocaine instead of cash, had died when he was only two-years-old. She'd dropped him off at Ochoa's house without a word, leaving him to be raised by Rogero's mother, a woman who believed in liberal use of the rod to silence the children. Bruce was the one who noticed the discrepancy in the autopsies. While the women were all beaten and raped before death, Rogero's victims of fifteen years ago were all carved with symbols in their skin quite a while after their deaths. The current victims showed signs that the symbols were done both before and shortly after death. It chilled Clint to think that even at fifteen, Julio had already been working on the bodies; the working theory was that Rogero was a brutal thug, but Julio thought of himself as much more.

As if to confirm that impression, Clint walked into the first room of the house. Ultra-modern with stainless steel and black leather furniture mixed with old artifacts that looked to be museum quality. He recognized a stone with intricate scrollwork and a carving that looked like an ancient Inca god; the design was achingly familiar from the crime scene photos. Expensive paintings, tile floors – the interior could be featured in one of those design magazines, the kinds that always hounded Tony for access to Stark Tower. But it was too clinical, everything in place, nothing personal anywhere. The room set off all the warning bells that Clint had learned not to ignore in his years as a spy. All that as missing was a pet cheetah or some exotic animal … oh, wait, there was a large aquarium with bald python hanging off of a barren limb, long yellow stripe down its back. Yes, all the boxes for eccentric psycho were checked now. And that made Clint even surer that Julio was just the front man in this operation; experience had taught him that psychosis and well-organized plans did not go hand-in-hand.

"Nice digs," Clint said to the guards. "Little too sterile for my taste, but better than that 80s crap that used to be here." He had no idea if they spoke any English, but he sure wasn't going to let them know he understood Spanish. "Snakes? Why'd it have to be snakes?"

"Este camino," the lead guard said, a short man with a barrel for a chest and dark curly hair. He added a push with the muzzle of his automatic rifle to head Clint down a hallway. They passed a dining room with a two story high ceiling, a kitchen that was a chef's wet dream, and then he was shoved out of a sliding glass door onto an interior courtyard. Lush green plants shaded the stone walkways; a clay fountain dominated the middle of the space with lounge chairs arrayed around the small lap pool beside it. The walls of the house blocked all but a square space of blue sky, eliminating any line of sight into the area.

Julio Ochoa looked young for his age. At 30, he could easily pass for a college student, his slim shoulders showing the line of his collarbone, his skin tan and brown, his chest smooth and hairless. A pair of Chrome Hearts sunglasses – complete with dagger design – rested on his nose. He wore white swim trunks and nothing else, just a white towel behind his head. The latest Starkphone was glued to his ear as he carried on a conversation about an auction, authorizing his agent to raise the bid. Looking over the top of his glasses with bored dark brown eyes, he waved Clint to take a seat in the other free lounge as he continued.

"Si. But no more than $500,000. I want it. Make it happen." Julio ended the call and casually dropped the phone on the table before picking up his glass. "I love street art, but hate the latecomers driving up the price. Banksy's getting far too well known; I'll have to find another to collect. Martini?"

"Not really a martini drinker, thanks. More of a whiskey, man." If Julio thought he could rattle Clint with this gracious host act, he was wrong. Bruce had taught Clint a lot about maintaining his calm and Tony was the king of inappropriate cocktail talk with villains. So he settled back, kicked his boots up onto the white cushion, leaving dirt in his wake as he got comfortable. "I wouldn't say no to some scotch."

"Alberto, get our guest some Glenlivet, please," Julio directed the older man in white who was waiting by another entryway. "And have Constance make the preparations. I'm sure Agent Barton will want to meet his daughter soon."

Straight to it then. "Actually, I'll need some proof of that. Not a big fan of Maury Povich surprises. An independently verified DNA test would suffice. Blood drawn at a neutral facility … you understand." Clint took the tumbler from Alberto, sniffed and swirled, then sipped.

"Of course. In this day and age, we must be sure. She is your child; Angel never slept with another man but you." He wasn't the best poker player. Clint could tell he thought he was twisting the knife with his little jabs. After Loki, Julio was the bush leagues. "I admit to being surprised you chose this method of entry. I expected a quiet break-in, to wake to find you with a rifle over my bed. Or are you leaving that to your colleagues, maybe the infamous Black Widow or that monster you are fucking?"

"Trust me, if the Hulk was here, you'd definitely know it. He likes kids and hates those who hurt them. I thought this was a quieter approach, don't you think? You tell me what it is you want and we negotiate like grown-ups instead of pitching tantrums." Clint shrugged; he'd expected Julio to know he wasn't alone. But knowing Natasha was here and knowing what she was doing were two very different things. By now, she was in the compound somewhere, a complex program of shifting cameras creating dead spots for her thanks to Steve and JARVIS. Plus, Phil hadn't even registered on Julio's radar.

"Indeed!" Julio clapped his hands and sat up. "Much nicer. We can sit and have a long chat. I admit to being curious about you, how you went from being a gun-for-hire to the world's greatest archer. A fascinating journey I'm sure."

"I could ask the same of you, but then you always were a twisted little shit, weren't you? Carved up big brother's leftovers and graduated to making your own bodies to play with." He smiled his best shark-toothed grin, shifting strategies to keep Julio off-balance. "Now you think you're ready to play with the big boys, but you're out of your league."

Lines appeared on Julio's brow as he scowled; he clutched the thin stem of his glass and drained the rest of his drink. "I am an artist; I make people better, a piece of beauty in our messed up world." He visibly restrained himself, drawing in a deep breath.

"Right. Justification 101. Bigger question is why Daddy has left you in charge at all. Everyone knows you're insane. Maybe the Padre is getting too old? Sick? No one's seen him in a while." Poke every angle, see what gets a reaction. Clint's style wasn't elegant, but it got the job done. Of course he usually ended up battered and bruised along the way.

"And how is Ronin? I hear he's still active, took out that Saudi royal with a penchant for pederasty just a few years ago. Wouldn't your beloved Avengers like to know who they have working with them?" Julio pushed back.

Clint laughed. "Tony Stark knows everything, haven't you heard? If I remember correctly, I got a steak dinner after that one. Seems that child molesters are universally condemned to a special hell. What can I say? I've got a gift for ridding the world of bad seeds."

"Dreamers are often misunderstood in their generation," Julio said, getting defensive. "Mundane minds like yours can't understand the benefits of being special, obviously, or you wouldn't try so hard to stop the transformation, would let nature take its course."

Ah, yes. Pay dirt. Julio did know about Fisk's program; the only surprise was how quickly Julio had spilled the information. "And that answers the crazy question. You're ready for your close-up on CSI. You do realize that the wacko killer always ends up dead at the end of the story, right?"

He was getting angry, his eyes hardening, exactly what Clint was after. "I do what is necessary, like you used to. Rogero deserved to die; he was affecting the business, too busy with his girls and snorting most of the profit. His genes needed to be out of the gene pool. You knew that. But now you are this … whatever you've become … and you've forgotten that death is a necessary part of life."

"I'm here, Julio. If you wanted me dead, I would be, so your plan requires my active participation. Get on with it. I've got better things to do than listen to you lecture me on the virtues of mass murderers." Keep him guessing, change tones and subjects, and he'd tell Clint everything. Natasha had taught him that.

"Parties to go to with your friend Stark? He makes such wonderful toys," Julio spun his phone in his hands, fidgeting it between his fingers. "Or your American Captain? I hear they are dating now like you. Stark I would believe, but the good soldier? Father is right; men aren't men today."

"Never would have pegged you for a Page Six gossip fan, but, hey, whatever floats your boat." Clint took another drink and didn't rise to the bait, letting the silence lengthen as Julio grew more agitated. Obviously this wasn't the way he'd imagined the interview going. "Seems to me you want to be the king of your little castle here."

"You want to know what I want?" Julio couldn't stop himself; Clint was counting on the brag factor. All villains, small or large, seemed to want to tell someone their plans. "I want to be the man my father thinks Rogero was. Simple, really. I bring him the head of the man who killed his beloved son on a platter then he will finally give me the reigns of the business."

There was a kernel of truth there but most of the answer was practiced bullshit. "Easy enough to do. Just hire someone to take me out. No, you want me here, to torture for your own twisted pleasure."

Alberto bent and whispered into Julio's ear. The servant's eyes lit on Clint for a split second then slid away. Not a good sign; the man was scared. Jumping up, Julio reached for the shirt Alberto held out, shrugging into the white button-up short sleeve. "Good. She's awake. That will make this interview more exciting. Come. See why you're here."

Clint felt the pulse of concern from Bruce, not all that distant. He and Phil were in the nearest town, settled in to an old garage that was out of business. Between satellite imagery and JARVIS' access to the Ochoa compound's security system, they were probably watching Clint as he followed Julio down the hallway. The cameras weren't even hidden; every angle seemed to be watched by a lens. He made no bones about checking out the locations, peering in open doorways and matching the layout with the map in his head. Along the way, he counted at least seven more armed men with the look of professional mercenaries, the kind who had no moral compass but cash on the table, a good sign. When push came to shove, money might get them to walk away. They weren't zealots to the cause. But where were all the servants?

They turned down a staircase, wide and shallow marble that curved into a game room – billiard table, big screen TV, a fully stocked bar – and then through a small door that led to a more utilitarian set of stairs and a deeper level. Here the walls were unadorned concrete block, the temperature noticeably cooler, the security even more evident. Julio paused in a small side room where a willowy blonde sat behind a desk, fingers clicking over the keys of a blue laptop. Cold blue eyes looked up at them, peering over her black rimmed glasses. In her mid-50s, this woman's face was dead, no emotion whatsoever.

"Senor Ochoa." She had a heavy Norwegian accent. "She is prepared for you. Vitals are good; the medicine is working as expected. Slow but steady progress."

"Good work, Constance. Let our guest see."

A curtain drew aside from a thick window, revealing what looked like a hospital room on the other side of the heavily reinforced door. In the dim light of the room, the monitors cast a glow over the form on the bed; dark hair hung in unwashed hanks, thin arms covered in goose bumps were strapped down to the metal rungs of the uncomfortable gurney, and golden brown skin was faded, pale from exhaustion. Clint stepped forward without meaning to, his heart stopping as he saw the curving mound of her stomach, so far gone in the pregnancy that her belly button was protruding upward. His hands curled into fists and a red-hot range rolled through him; within seconds, an answering growl of anger fed back along the connection, the Big Guy reacting to Clint's dark impulse to sink his hands into Julio's neck. Only with years of practice did Clint manage to keep his face impassive as he willed himself calm and pushed back to tell the Hulk not to come smashing in just yet.

"You know I'm going to kill you." Clint made the statement even and measured, like he was discussing the weather. "Daughter or not, you're not going to live."

"We'll see." Julio was positively gleeful; he'd lost all pretenses at being anything more than aroused by the pain on the girl's tear streaked face. "Or I'll be the father of a baby with quite a pedigree long after you're in a shallow grave in the jungle."

"You God damn son-of-a-bitch." Clint's vision whited out and he was moving before Julio stopped speaking, driving an elbow back into one of the guard's nose, shattering it and leaving a splatter of blood. Spinning, Clint grabbed the muzzle of the second one's gun, taking it from him and using the butt to break his cheekbone. Swinging it like a club, he went after the third, knocking him down. That left just the fourth and Clint needed only wave the AK 47 in the man's direction before he raised his hands in surrender. Clint couldn't fathom that depth of depravity; he never could, despite multiple examples over the years. To intentionally hurt a child, someone dependent on you, helpless and unable to defend themselves – a stone cold surety settled in his gut, the kind of lack of emotion Natasha called the killing zone. Not on his watch. Not to any child.

"That was a lovely demonstration." Julio didn't seem bothered by the barrel of the gun in his face or Clint's determined glare. Instead he lifted his hand and showed Clint the square device he held there. "But you're going to put down the gun and go quietly or I'll use this."

It was a trigger remote, designed to activate the nannites that had been introduced into Clint's body and programmed to alter his basic DNA structure by enhancing his natural abilities. Richard Fisk had fostered the technology in order to create more Hulks for H.Y.D.R.A., but he'd also planned to make more mutations among the human population for his own army with super-human powers. He'd had a successful test, turning General Thaddeus Ross and his daughter Betty into Hulks before the Avengers had been able to stop him. Worst of all, Fisk had exposed Bruce and Clint then triggered their change. The Big Guy and Bruce had developed a more symbiotic relationship, sharing memories and becoming able to control their shifts back and forth. Clint could see in the dark and his reaction time was much faster. All in all, the outcome wasn't the worst it could have been.

"Fisk is in prison, or at least what's left of him," Clint spat. He'd had enough of this jackass. "Whatever they promised you? Great power, infinite riches? Yeah, no. Mab's going to send someone who'll take over your body, leaving nothing behind. Tell me who is running this freak show, and I'll kill you quickly. My final and only offer."

"Oh, I'm just the means to an end." Julio nodded to the girl on the table. She was awake now, her blue-grey eyes – Clint's eyes – staring out at them, wide and scared. Biting her lip so hard blood leaked from the edge, she refused to cry out, staying silent as she listened. "You know that Angel was special? She had the sight, strong enough to avoid my ability to hunt her and her brat down until she was dead. And you, you're just as much a freak as those sideshows in your precious circus. Take that mix of DNA in the girl and add mine? Alchemy. Magic. A vessel worthy of the Queen of Darkness."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This cluster was getting worse by the minute. Clint was ready to let the Big Guy go on his rampage. He knew real evil existed in the world, but the very thought of Julio with Margarita … she was fifteen fucking years old. Fifteen-year-old girls should be giggling about their first crush or sleeping over at a friend's house, not laying on a bed in the house of her rapist, waiting for a father she'd never known to come rescue her. "I hate to break the news to you, but that little box isn't going to stop me."

"Of course it is." Julio put his thumb on the green button and pushed. "You'll do whatever I want."

Clint braced himself, but the expected pain didn't come. Julio had turned, pointing the device at Margarita with a look of glee on his face. The scream battered Clint's heart as her body shook, back arching up even under the weight of the child inside of her. Thrashing, she jerked so hard the bed rolled and the straps strained. The gown stretched across her stomach and Clint could see the ripples across the taut skin as the monitors went crazy.

"Stop it!" Clint jammed the gun into Julio's side.

Black tentacles wrapped around his arm and yanked the gun away from him. The nurse, Constance, was smiling, eyes alight with an unholy excitement, six of the long appendages looping around Clint and dragging him back.

"Come now. I know the destruction you are capable of. I have a few surprises of my own." Julio didn't, or couldn't, tear his eyes away from the writhing form, holding down the button as Clint struggled to get free.

"Senor Ochoa," Constant said, no hint in her voice that she was expending any energy at all. "We are on a tight schedule. She is not ready yet."

With a small sigh, Julio moved his finger and tucked the device back into the pocket of his trunks. "Yes, yes. The Pitocin will do its job, I know. But a man has to have a little distraction now and then." He turned to the nurse. "Check her dilation and contractions. Keep her slow and easy." With a chilling smile, he turned back to Clint. "Help me get our guest to his room and the fun can truly begin."

"So much for a quick death," Clint told him as the tentacles pulled him along towards another door. And he meant every word. Julio Ochoa was going to die. The only question was by Clint's hand or did he let the Black Widow have him to play with?


End file.
